


Christmas Mirac--Hales, heh. (Or Jingle Floofbeans)

by Heyokaooohshiny



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Christmas fic, Happy Ending, Lactation, M/M, Mpreg, No Sex, Single Parent Stiles, Some Fluff, Underage - Freeform, canon level violence, child characters, child fic, non-consensual sex due to spell, runaway stiles stilinski, trigger warning due to angst and derek hale levels of man-pain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 10:34:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8976190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heyokaooohshiny/pseuds/Heyokaooohshiny
Summary: Just before Christmas Stiles finds himself in a different town hiding from everyone he knows, protecting the very secret that prompted him to escape from Beacon Hills and the madness of the Alpha Pack. With only an emotionally stunted ex-emissary in the know, can Stiles mend his broken heart and keep his precious secret safe?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a two--maybe three chapter Christmas fluff fic I had to get out of my head. Enjoy!
> 
> Not beta'd

He never expected to find himself here; physically or mentally, six days before Christmas.

Stiles shifted in his position as gingerly as he could, mindful of the two sleeping babies in the crook of his arms.

He was past exhaustion. A trip to the bathroom seemed insurmountable when he compared it to possibly stirring two peacefully sleeping infants, the gut-wrenching pain in his belly, and/or adulting long enough to feed himself.

It all sounded so _hard_. He was so tired. Surely his body could just recycle his pee if he lay there long enough. The idea sounded reasonable when the world was lined in soft grey fog.

If it wasn’t for the fact that there was now two someone else’s relying on him to maintain at least the barest minimum of personal hygiene to keep them alive, Stiles would have surrendered to the syrupy drag of sleep. As it was, the two tiny little bodies sharing his body heat gave him enough strength of will to revive himself.

Carefully easing the two swaddled jellybeans to the mattress underneath, Stiles made sure to box them in with pillows. He was slow to push himself up using his arms in order not to aggravate his stomach muscles more than he had to. Doc Deaton had warned him to take it easy until his incision healed.

It was hard not to be careful, his muscles burned in warning if he so much as thought of moving. The puckered red scar underneath where his treasure trail had been (before Deaton shaved it away—pre-caesarean) was a sobering reminder of why he’d been in hiding for the past 6 months. Y’know, in case the two tiny baby girls on his bed failed to do that.

 _Fat chance_ , Stiles huffed.

He slowly and painstakingly slid off the side of the mattress onto his feet, swallowing back the involuntary hiss of pain he almost made as the tender soles of his feet hit the cold floor. It seemed like his body was swollen in weird places, not just his abdomen. Stiles hobbled slowly in the direction of the bathroom, moving like an eighty-year old man.

Bladder relieved and feeling 20 pounds lighter, Stiles felt invigorated enough to brush his teeth and wash his face. When he tiptoed back into his small studio apartment the babies were still sleeping. _Yay_. It was wonderful the kind of peace that came over them when their little bellies were full of milk.

Stiles felt positively burglar-like as he quietly moved around the kitchen, heating up a stew that someone from the McLeod Pack had dropped by the other day. He was beyond grateful for their involvement in his . . . situation. He likely would have starved to death or subsisted off his impressive take-out list if he’d been left to his own devices. It came down to Deaton and his ties with the McLeod Pack here in San Francisco that kept Stiles’ head above the water the moment he’d left Beacon Hills, broken-hearted and terrified. 

He didn’t like to remember his reasons behind running away from everything he’d ever known. So as he had since the moment he’d heard the impossible; twin heartbeats on the doppler in Deaton’s vet clinic, Stiles focused on what _they_ needed. And what they needed right now was a food-source that didn’t pass out from starvation.

He looked down at his bowl in surprise when his spoon scraped along the ceramic. He’d eaten the whole thing, practically inhaled it, without tasting a single mouthful. He blinked blearily at the bowl and contemplated heating up a second. He dismissed the thought. He was too tired and he needed to catch what sleep he could before the Misses Hale woke up and demanded his attention.

Yeah, that. That was the only concession he made to the other side of their parentage. Thinking more encouraged madness and Stiles was skating on thin ice. It was clear enough from their matching caps of dark hair that his babies would take after the man who had ripped the heart from Stiles’ chest and left it bleeding on the floor of the loft.

Stiles pressed his fingers against his aching eyes. He wouldn’t. That was. That was done. He had daughters to take care of now. He wasn’t going to voluntarily remember what went down.

Another pathetic zombie shuffle across the floor back to the bed. Stiles contemplated moving the girls to the co-sleeper but figured if he moved them now he was likely pushing his luck. So with one hand pressed against his stomach to keep his stitches from busting open like some kind of horror movie, he knee walked up the mattress until he could ease his way down beside his babies (and wasn’t that something he’d never thought he’d live to say). He had to bite his lips against the burning protest of his muscles as he relaxed back, drawing a wool throw over himself. He did throw one arm out protectively to circle the sleeping infants, they were tiny, and it wasn’t a huge challenge.

His head dropped back on the pillow and he was out for the count.

 

Stiles had always been a heavy sleeper. That was when he could _get_ to the point of actual sleep. Waking up had always proved to be somewhat of an issue. He was used to setting his alarm for multiple wake-ups in order to pierce his heavy slumber. Then came a shower. And coffee.

But he was mystified to find that having babies now meant he had a trigger finger revival reflex. If one or both of the babies started to make their soft little grunting noises, signifying imminent consciousness, Stiles found himself jerking awake in response.

The most disconcerting thing about the whole process was as soon as a piercing cry hit the airwaves, Stiles began to _leak_.

From his _nipples._

Deaton had warned him about the possibility but Stiles had dismissed it. His nipples remained their normal regular old-Stiles-nipple-ness his whole pregnancy (and yes, he was aware how stupid he sounded—shut up). But nope, as soon as one of the floofbeans started wailing he started dropping milk like it was hot.

The first time it happened, Stiles was too doped up with drugs to really protest. He was sure he managed an appropriate flummoxed mouth drop. He remembered Deaton’s smug face as he helped Stiles get the handle of a double latch.

Things a 17 year old _boy_ should never have to know let alone experience firsthand.

But this was his life.

The baby on his right, swaddled in the green striped receiving blanket was blinking squinty eyes in his general direction. She was making enquiring squirrely grunting noises and would soon lose patience with his slow response. She was generally more alert than her twin. More demanding. As if reading his thoughts, she opened her tiny pink mouth in a yawn that ended in a frustrated grunt as she rooted at the blanket hungrily.

“Hey Liene,” Stiles cooed, lifting his (technically) oldest daughter into his arms. “What—no screaming this time? Aww, you love your _Tata_ don’t you?” He settled her into position, pushing his t-shirt up under his armpits so that he could get her downy head level with his nipple. He had decided there was no delicate way for a boy, erm, man, to breastfeed. In fact, he tried not to think about the _intricacies_ of the process at all. Instead of getting all worked up over how this wasn’t supposed to happen or how wrong it was in his brain, Stiles tried his best to let his instincts take over.

He made a pained face as Liene latched on. Stiles was still getting used to the hoover-strength werepups he birthed. No one had told him it would fricken hurt to breastfeed! It was supposed to be all rainbows and sunshine and bonding with babies! He had to try not to squirm at the brand new sensation of super-tickle and what-the-hell suction coming from his previously underutilized nips. Maybe it was ‘cause he was a guy? It wasn’t like he could consult anyone else with this experience.

Whether it was the scent of milk in the air, or the loud suckling noises her sister was making, Stiles never experienced much of a gap in quiet before Awen stirred. That was always fun. Juggling newborns one-handed. He going pro.

With an upgraded pizza-spin, Stiles had Awen in his other arm and latched before she’d managed to get out a handful of piercing cries. “There you go,” He hushed her, pressing his thumb down on her chin to help her latch properly. His youngest was in such a hurry to get to her food source she didn’t much care for quality of beverage. She kicked out at him impatiently as he interrupted the stream.

Settling back into the pillows, Stiles sighed. At least they had a somewhat workable schedule going on. Eat, poop, sleep. Repeat. If he was feeling particularly frisky he would brush his teeth, or eat a full meal. Not exactly the wild party lifestyle of a 17-year old alone in San Fran.

He’d left the ‘wild’ lifestyle behind in Beacon Hills for a reason. He had no urge to seek it out here. Certainly not now that he had the girls. The closest he came was having a retired Emissary for a downstairs neighbor.

He was beyond lucky that the McLeod’s were kind enough to extend welcome and home-made meals. Deaton had gone above and beyond when he’d sought sanctuary for the pregnant untrained spark. Stiles owed the man big time.

So he couldn’t complain. He was alive. His girls were healthy. There was a roof above their heads and food in the fridge. Everything else could wait until the babies slept more than half an hour at a time.

Stiles really _really_ wished he could have a Redbull, or a dark roast coffee with espresso shot. Or hell, even his ADHD medicine. He’d gone cold turkey for the twins and he couldn’t indulge until he stopped breastfeeding (that would _never_ sound natural in his head).

One of the benefits he’d discovered coming off his medication, other than being completely unbearable to be around—he was antsy, jittery and generally 50% more of an asshole than normal--Stiles found a source for all his manic energy. At the time he thought it was a joke.

He had found a bag of craft supplies someone left behind at a bus stop. There was a cross-stitch project half finished and after trying to locate the owner on the internet, Stiles had gotten bored one day and picked up the x-stich instead of reading the next terrifying chapter of What to Expect When You’re Expecting. Next thing he knew he was looking at a rather grandmotherly floral piece with his addition ‘Not today Motherf*cker’. It was strangely satisfying.

He told himself it was not dissimilar to graffiti. He was taking something traditionally one thing, and made it another by making it relevant to his messed up life. Maybe it said something for his sanity that he, Stiles Stilinski, was doing cross-stitch at all—but then again what else were pregnant dudes supposed to do while on the run from their crazy ass homicidal hometown if not rude needlepoint?

And while most of his living expenses were paid for by Deaton and his ilk in return for the promise of future training, Stiles was shocked to find there was a market for his smart-mouthed craft. He made a bunch of pocket money while he spent the rest of his pregnancy in hiding, stitching out hilarious tongue-out-of-cheek patterns. His imagination provided him with endless sarcastic inspiration. Enough to provide him with funds to go shopping online for baby things.

Stiles gave silent thanks to the gods for online-shopping. He could literally stay indoors for the rest of his life if he wanted to. San Fran would provide him with delivery service for all his various needs. It would be so easy for someone to become a recluse. He just needed a credit card and a phone and he was set for life.

Well, that might be exaggerating things a bit. Stiles was already feeling cooped up. He imagined as soon as he was able he’d be out with the babies for a walk in the fresh air.

He was changing the first of the twins when he heard the familiar rap on his apartment door. He didn’t bother looking up. “Come in!” His tongue was darting nervously out the side of his mouth as he tried to close the remaining tie on Liene’s diaper mid-kick, careful around her drying umbilical cord. They were so cute right now, unswaddled and on their backs on the colorful changing pad. Their arms and legs waving about like tiny slow-motion ninja’s. He was rapidly filling his new phone with videos of their adventures. His favorite was the one where Awen was sucking on Liene’s fist. Squirt wasn’t picky.

“Stiles.”

Looking up, Stiles saw the familiar sight of Deaton entering the loft. There was a not so familiar figure following behind him laden with boxes. Unable to help himself, Stiles muscles coiled with tension.

“Hey Doc, sup?”

“Just here for the usual checkup,” Deaton supplied calmly, placing his bag down on the small round kitchen table across the room. “Jay is here with some more groceries. I couldn’t carry it all myself.”

Stiles nodded warily at the diminutive redhead who waved back shyly. Stiles couldn’t help it, he edged himself into position so he was between the strange werewolf and his children. He had no reason to not trust Deaton’s judge of character but after Beacon Hill’s, Stiles ability to trust was severely damaged.

If Deaton noticed he made no mention, he just headed for the room divider which he put up between the bed and the kitchen space to block Stiles’ sight of Jay cleaning his kitchen. Stiles blinked out of his protective haze when Deaton placed an understanding hand on his shoulder.

“And how are the girls doing?”

Stiles smiled wanly, “Great I think. Eating and pooping up a storm. I think it’s all pretty normal--? If someone could take out the garbage when you go that would be great. It’s starting to smell like a steamy manure sauna in here.”

A twitch of lip was the only indication Deaton was amused by his word play. “I’m sure we’ll manage.”

He gestured to the babies. “You or the twins first?”

Stiles shot another wary look towards the kitchen, “Uh, girls first I think. I’ll finish changing Awen while you look at Liene.”

Agreeing, Deaton pulled out his portable scale to weigh the oldest twin.

“Five and a half pounds,” Deaton said, writing it down in his handy journal. “That’s up a half a pound from two days ago.”

Awen was only a couple grams behind her sister in weight.

“They are both feeding well?” Deaton checked.

Stiles felt his cheeks turning hot. This was not a question that should ever be directed at him, but, well, needs must. “Yep. At least every two hours.”

“Any spit up?”

“Spit bubbles mostly. Spit up a few times but nothing alarming.”

Deaton nodded. “They look good. No jaundice, but if you can manage to sit in the sunlight with them that something to try to avoid. Keep an eye on their weight, they should be gaining steadily now. If you notice anything, call me.”

Stiles nodded rapidly. It was kind of funny, Deaton was literally downstairs. It wasn’t like he had to go far if he had questions. They were both Beacon Hills refugees.

“Okay, get them dressed and I’ll have a look at your incision.”

Stiles grimaced at that, not keen on having the vet-come-emergency obstetrician poke at his tender belly.

Deciding to dress his little girls as a method of distraction only gave him another moment of freedom but it was very satisfying. Especially when he finally got to see his little beans dressed up.

“What?” Stiles said to Deaton’s judge-y silence. “I think they’re adorable.”

Liene was now in a black and white penguin fleecy sleeper while Awen was wearing a polar bear one. His teeth ached they were so cute.

“You realize one eats the other,” Deaton said dryly.

“You realize they’re werewolves and your argument is invalid,” Stiles responded cheerily.

There was a muffled snort from the direction of the kitchen and Stiles felt justified. His opinion about the strange interloper warmed by a few degrees.

“Are you done deflecting?” Deaton enquired.

Huffing, Stiles placed Awen next to her sister on the co-sleeper. “You have approximately three minutes before they decide they’ve had enough being independent women,” he told the vet, as he pulled up his milk-stained shirt and wriggled his jersey pants down lower on his hips. He managed not to aggravate his wound too much as he moved.

He shifted his eyes away from his pale belly, still uncomfortable at the sight of the raw looking incision, plus the extra puffiness of his baby weight. It made him feel squirmy inside to see the alienness of his own flesh, even after the literal nine months he had to come to terms with it all.

Hissing as Deaton’s semi-cold fingers carefully explored the flesh around the stitches, searching for signs of infection. He cleaned the area with a swab of something before applying a strong smelling herbal salve. “Looks like you’re healing well. The site is still inflamed but not infected. You will have to take it easy for a few more days. Your abdomen was not meant to carry young, or undergo a cesarean so your recovery will take longer than normal.”

 _Obviously_. Stiles rolled his eyes.

Deaton hesitated. “I need to check your—chest area next, Stiles.”

Frowning, Stiles instinctively crossed his arms. “What? Why?!” He almost yelped.

“A breastfeeding mother can experience an infection, called mastitis, in the milk ducts. I want to make sure that everything is going there as well.”

Stiles wanted to point out he wasn’t a mother, but that was rather obvious. “How is this my life?” He groaned into the hands covering his face as he made a gesture to ‘get on with it’. He restrained the hard flinch he wanted to make at Deaton’s clinical touch.

Hurriedly pulling down his shirt when Deaton finally leaned back, Stiles couldn’t help his sigh of relief.

“Everyone has a clean bill of health,” the enigmatic emissary announced confidently. “You’re doing a great job, Stiles.”

That spurred a broken huff from Stiles, “Thanks Deats.” He just wished he could have heard those words of comfort from other key figures who were supposed to be supporting him through the crazy. His father for one—

Before he could sink into misery at the thought, Deaton’s hand on his arm brought him out of his rumination.

“Why don’t you grab a shower while I’m here? I’ll watch the babies.”

“Really?” Stiles said with an unnecessary amount of enthusiasm. “Oh, man. Thanks Deaton!”

It was way easier getting out of bed when he had help. Stiles was grateful as Deaton assisted him with gathering up clean clothes to change into.

Even though the beans were starting to fuss, Stiles steeled himself against their cries. It was to everyone’s benefit that he took care of his hygiene. No one appreciated the homeless beggar chic he was rocking.

A shower had never felt so sinfully indulgent. Even as hurried as he was, the luxury of shampooing his hair was beyond nice. Just smelling like clean soap instead of days old milk and b.o. was a relief to his senses, he couldn’t imagine his poor little girls’ teeny noses.

It was pure heaven to put on clean clothes too. His chest was super-duper sensitive so for now all he could wear were extra soft undershirts layered with one of his flannels, and a clean pair of light grey flannel sleep pants. It was best if he wore something he could fall asleep in—and not have to struggle through another change of clothes. This worked.

By the time he exited the bathroom he was wobbly with exhaustion. Deaton was there to act as a human crutch back to the bed where Stiles pulled back the blankets and crawled in with a relieved sigh. “Thanks,” he breathed as the man handed his very loud and very upset babies over one by one.

He couldn’t help the smile that cracked his face as he glanced down at the tiny little woodland creatures. He’d been surprised, and then pumped when he’d discovered themed sleepers online that would fit his tiny little ones. Most of the clothes that he’d bought, with the exception of onesies, were still a bit big on them.

As Stiles cradled his girls to his chest and soothed away their separation anxiety, Deaton packed away his equipment. When he put back the folding room divider Stiles blinked in disbelief as he caught sight of the made-over kitchen. How had he missed that when he crossed the room from his shower? He must have been more tired than he thought!

The kitchen had been transformed from its neat and efficient cooking corner, into a Christmas grotto. He kept blinking as if to clear his eyes. “What--?”

“Jay’s contribution.” Deaton revealed. Was that a hint of fondness in his tone? Stiles blinked his foggy eyes. Surely he was hallucinating.

Still, it was cheering to see the tiny potted pine on the café table that served as his eating area. It was a simple thing, decorated with fairy lights but the sight of it made Stiles warm inside.

“Wow,” Stiles said softly. His throat was thick with emotion. “Tell her I said thanks.”

“I will,” Deaton agreed. He turned at the threshold of the apartment. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

Stiles just nodded.

“Oh and Stiles,” Deaton was half out the door. Stiles looked away from the little Christmas tree with reluctance. “There’s a snack on your bedside table, when you get a moment.”

He didn’t wait for a response. Perhaps knowing Stiles was feeling enormously emotional.

Alone in the apartment with his girls once more, Stiles furiously blinked back the heat in his eyes. He glanced at the wrapped up plate on his night table but was too tired to make the effort. Nap first. Eat later.

Even though the last few months had been full of terror and unknown, right at that moment Stiles could feel nothing but grateful for the gift he held in his arms.

He was pulled into another exhaustive nap.

 

The knock woke him from sleep. Stiles was disoriented for a few moments, his heart beat pounding for a moment at the unexpected noise.

“Deat’n?” He slurred

His eyes took in his babies, still asleep. They hadn’t been startled by the noise. _Yay._

He was sleep drunk as he stumbled across the room to the door. The knock came again. “M’comin.”

He leaned heavily on the door as he pulled it open, panting at the effort it took to hurry. “S’up du—”

The words died in his mouth at the sight of Derek Hale’s infamous scowl.

Stiles staggered back, cold with horror.

_No._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I think maybe I should be writing a bio, not fanfic. Over my holidays I've had an uninvited paranoid schizophrenic relative show up at my house, my son has developed epileptic seizures, my panic attacks and antisocial behavior has skyrocketed (I wonder why--), I burnt the majority of my fingers on a rush order of subscription boxes I have a hand in producing, my doctor made me cry, I hooked up to a sleep apnea machine. Discovered actual oxygen reaching my brain at night means shitty shitty nightmares--I could go on but its so pathetic it's hilarious. I'm thinking tragicomedy for my bio. 
> 
> Anyhoo. Here's chapter two. It's a BIT angsty. A teeny bit fluffy. And a speck hopeful. Last chapter is to follow at some undetermined future date provided there are no more crazy shenanigans in my life. 
> 
> HA.

Stiles eyes were glued to Derek’s scowling face as his arms wind milled for balance. He tripped over his own feet in shock.

“Stiles--?” The defensive growl changed in tone partway through his name. Derek’s expression went from defensive to confusion within a heartbeat, clearly not expecting this response. It was clear he was expecting his arrival to be unwelcome, but he wasn’t prepared for the undiluted panic that spilled out the open door.

As the Alpha werewolf followed him, Stiles desperation notched up a few more unbearable levels. His breathing was short and wheezy as he gasped for air. He needed to reach the bed before . . .

Derek glanced at the small apartment briefly. He could hear multiple heartbeats but Stiles seemed to be the only person present. His brows furrowed deeper. “Stiles what--?”

The young boy had backed up to the bed in the room, bracing his legs against the mattress. He had an arm curled around his middle, hunching as though he was in pain. Derek breathed in deeply. That’s because he _was_ in pain.

“You’re hurt--!” Derek growled at the scent of a recent wound. Fury filled him at the thought of someone hurting Stiles.

Panic flashed across Stiles face at Derek’s angry growl and for a moment the werewolf felt wounded. He would _never_ hurt him! How could Stiles think--!

There was a sudden sharp cry that was joined immediately by a second. The call came high and full of distress. Derek froze. His wolfish instincts surged to the forefront at the sound. His eyes flashed red. _Was tha--?_

Stiles however was a blur of motion. At the cry, Stiles dove to the head of the bed and grabbed something under one of the pillows. After a pause Derek followed him, curiosity and a bit of concern for the boy’s injuries making him think all this movement wasn’t very wise.

But he was a second too late. As Stiles turned around he was already flinging a familiar black powder with a protective snarl on his pale face.

Derek hit the surprise mountain ash barrier and bounced off with a reflexive roar of thwarted fury.

“What the hell Stiles?!” Derek snarled from his splayed position on the floor.

The boy was scrambling back against the headboard, pulling two stuffed animals to his chest. His hands were shaking uncontrollably.

Wait, the ‘stuffed animals’ were the source of the piercing screaming and heartbeats. Derek raised his eyes to Stiles’ in disbelief. The boy was searching blindly with his free hand for something else. Derek hoped it wasn’t wolfsbane.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” Stiles said shakily. Pulling out a cellphone, he fumbled with the numbers.

This was _nowhere_ near the reunion Derek had expected when he found Stiles at last. Knowing that it wasn’t likely to go smoothly had been one thing, but _this--!_

Keeping his eyes on Derek for any threatening move, Stiles spoke hurriedly into the phone, “Deaton!! He’s here!! He’s here in the apartment! What do I do?!” Exasperation flashed across his face, “Derek! He’s in my apartment. Right. Now. _Do_ something!!”

“I don’t understand!” Derek said haltingly, “I’m not here to hurt you Stiles. I’m here to take you home!”

A broken laugh was Stiles’ response. “What home? What’s even left for me there anymore?”

That took Derek aback. “Your—your father has been looking for you; and Scott is devastated.”

Stiles’ glittering eyes looked down at the two infants he held tight to his chest. “My father sees me as nothing but a liar and a disappointment. He won’t look for me much longer. And Scott? Scott remembers to be devastated when he’s not hanging the moon for Allison.” He looked back up at Derek, “That’s not enough to bring me back to the town where your girlfriend tried to sacrifice me to a mystical tree.”

“She’s not my—wait. Jennifer tried to sacrifice you?!” Derek reeled when Stiles’ words sank in.

Stiles was pale. He stubbornly lifted his chin. “She sure looked like your _something_ when I walked in on you two _fucking_.” He spat. “You were probably too busy to notice the cute English Teacher slash Darrach agenda when she decided instead of finding individual guardian/warrior/virgins for her sacrifices she decided I made a great BOGO deal. According to her I was all three and a super charged spark to boot.”

Derek was in shock, so he could be excused for fixating on the one thing he could dispute, “But you weren’t a virgin--”

 “Oh buddy,” Stiles said bitterly, “you would know, wouldn’t you.  However good ol’ Jenny from the Block knew something I didn’t at the time. I was carrying my two super precious floofbeans. Ms. Blake practically ripped Beacon Hills in half to get to us. It took Deaton’s considerable skill to smuggle me out before she got her claws into us.”

Derek looked as sick as he felt. Jennifer had tried to kill Stiles? He didn’t think he could hate the woman more but, he was surprised to find, he did.

But some of Stiles’ words didn’t compute.

_Floofbeans?_

He didn’t have the greatest ability to translate Stiles-ese but if he had to guess purely by visual clue, it had to do with the two infants Stiles was guarding with everything he had.

“Stiles—who left you in charge of two babies?” Derek said slowly. “Where’s their mother?”

Making a strangled noise in his throat, Stiles ducked his head closer to the two infants in his arms. Almost like he was gathering strength from their scent. Their wails were beginning to ease the longer he cuddled them.

Derek picked up some mumbled words and the scent of tears. “--don’t make me do this.”

Ignoring the origin of the children for a moment, Derek reluctantly returned to the reason why Stiles was reluctant to see him. Justifiably so. Even if he wasn’t asking for forgiveness, Stiles deserved the truth of what happened in Beacon Hills.

“I’m sorry for upsetting you Stiles, it wasn’t my intention. I wanted to bring you home now that the town is safe.”

That got a response. Stiles lifted his head to look at him. “The Alphas?” He demanded.

Derek dipped his head grimly. “We killed them.”

Stiles breath hitched in sudden fear, “Is everyone--?”

“They’re fine.” Derek reassured him quickly, guessing the reason for the jump of his pulse. “Everyone’s fine. I--they want you back home.”

Eyes narrowing at his slip, Stiles said, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Stiles--!”

“No!” Stiles raised his voice. “I don’t even understand why you came after me! I got the message alright?! You got something you needed somewhere else—and I was nearly collateral damage for that psychotic bitch! I nearly lost--”

Derek was horrified to see Stiles crying.

“I nearly lost e-everything!” the younger boy said through gulping breaths.

“Stiles—you’re having a panic attack,” Derek said cautiously, hand held out to show he meant no harm, “Let me help you.” He barely restrained the urge to pace back and forth along the mountain ash barrier.

A hysterical laugh was cut in half by a ragged gasp. Stiles still managed to glare at him. His golden eyes were dark with something Derek didn’t understand. “Go. To. Hell--!” He managed stubbornly.

“If you pass out who is going to take care of those babies?” Derek asked, a little meanly. He only meant to push Stiles into helping him through the panic attack.

“Nggh!” Stiles made an unintelligible frustrated noise, mouth fishing wide open as he struggled in vain for air. He hitched the arm around the babies higher in response to Derek’s threat but with his free arm he made a vague looking gesture and Derek felt the pressure of the barrier collapse.

Derek was rushing forward before it was fully dissipated.

He loomed over Stiles and placed a hand on the heaving chest. “C’mon Stiles, breathe with me--! One—out---two—out—that’s it, keep going!”

An attempt to get Stiles to put the babies down was met with an elbow forcefully to his sternum, so Derek didn’t try again.

Slowly he was able to coax Stiles into a rhythm so after a few minutes he backed off just enough to reach for the bottle of water on the night stand. “Can you take a sip?” Derek asked cautiously.

Stiles nodded warily, accepting the drink with a shaking hand.

The two tiny infants were making it known that they were unhappy for a completely different reason than before. Stiles grimaced with an uncomfortable expression. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to l-leave and pretend you never found me?”

Derek’s unimpressed brow-line was his answer.

“Fuck--! Fine. Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Stiles fidgeted.

To say Derek was confused was an understatement.

With a pained groan that Stiles unsuccessfully bit back, he placed the twins down on the bed and reached for the diaper supplies underneath the co-sleeper. He regretfully undressed the girls from their cute little sleepers and chose Awen to be changed first.

Stiles was used to the insistent pitch of his daughter’s hungry cries. He could only imagine what they were like to a werewolves sensitive ears. Not that he cared, he thought a little vindictively. His terrible twosome were hungry and not at all happy to have a diaper change _before_ mealtime.

And there was no such thing as pacifiers for werewolf babies. Haha no.

His poor nipples.

Speaking of . . .

“Stiles?” Derek’s voice reached through Stiles’ deliberate haze of concentration.

“What.”

“Whose babies are these?” Was that an actual thread of jealousy in Derek’s voice?

Stiles only huffed. That question would be answered very shortly. He ignored the flutter of nervous anticipation in his stomach.

With the girls in fresh diapers, Stiles didn’t bother putting them back in onesies. They would only need to be changed again shortly after feeding. With a deep breath to gather bravery he didn’t feel, Stiles reached over his head for the neck of his shirt and pulled it over his head with a shaky exhale.  

Using the balled up fabric to catch the stream of milk already brought forth by the girls’ hungry cries, Stiles chucked it blindly onto the floor and then arranged the babies into their usual feeding positions.

He liked to think of himself as some kind of football receiver. Only without the throwing. Or the spiking. Okay, maybe it wasn’t such a great metaphor. But the hold was apt.

By the time Stiles had Awen latched (he always put her on last because she had the strongest suction, and he couldn’t help it, he wanted to avoid the ouchie) Derek was clearly sputtering in confusion and disbelief.

Being the ass he clearly was, Stiles leaned back into his pillows and arched an eyebrow. “Last chance to back out that door and pretend you didn’t see anything.” It hurt to say and Stiles felt the ache right to the center of his being; but he didn’t want Derek around at all if the older man rejected him, or his daughters.

Bracing himself for the worst, Stiles dared to look up at Derek’s face.

“How—?” Derek asked breathlessly. His eyes were frozen on the tableau in front of him.

The expression on the Alpha’s face wasn’t one of disgust or derision. Confusion, certainly but there was a look Stiles had only seen on Derek’s face once before. When they’d had the conversation about the Kanima being an abomination.

It was _wonder_.

Stiles felt the blood rush into his face. This was in no way awkward. Were they having a moment while he was _breastfeeding?_ Holy fuck, how was this his life?!

Derek’s hand was outstretched and Stiles blinked rapidly as it hovered in the air uncertainly. “Can I--?” the werewolf asked hesitantly.

For once Stiles was at a loss for words. He nodded helplessly.

Instead of touching one of the babies, as Stiles expected him to, Derek’s fingers carefully hovered over the top of his incision.

_“Stiles—”_

He couldn’t help it. He shivered at the reverence in Derek’s voice, in his touch.

It was cruel.

Stiles eyes burned and he looked away. “So now you know,” his voice wobbled. He cursed himself.

“You never said anything,” Derek said, sounding destroyed.

Oh the bastard!

“You were _sleeping_ with the woman who was trying to _kill_ me and my unborn children,” Stiles’ voice was low as he tried to control his emotions. His milk flow would stutter if he got too worked up.

Derek sat back as though Stiles’ had slapped him.

There was silence for a few moments. Broken only by the unreal suckling sounds of the babies feeding at Stiles’ chest.

“I--,” Derek started. Stiles flinched involuntarily. His eyes darted to the Alpha. Derek tried again, his eyes averted, “I killed her. Jennifer.”

Stiles tensed. _What?_

“It doesn’t make up for what happened. Stiles, if you never forgive me I understand. Just, you should know that she--” Derek’s shoulders hunched, “--she used a spell on me. To--so that I would protect her from the Alpha pack.”

“What--?” Stiles whispered disbelievingly.

“Deucalion was attacking and she had to use all her power to hold him back. I was able to break her hold on me long enough to rip out her throat.” Derek sounded distant, as though the retelling didn’t matter to him. Stiles could guess differently. He felt sick.

“You were gone,” Derek said emptily. “I didn’t even know.” He risked a glance at Stiles, “I never—I would never--”

Stiles couldn’t stand the pain in Derek’s voice. “Okay.” He said heavily. He closed his eyes. “Okay.”

What a sick, sadistic bitch! If Jennifer wasn’t already dead, he would love to have a go at killing her to death. Maybe Peter could give him some tips on reanimation . . .

“Will you—sometime—will you let me visit with them?” Derek’s voice surprised Stiles. He wasn’t used to hearing the tough Alpha sound hesitant.

Surprised and confused by the request, Stiles opened his eyes and looked at the man he loved. “What--?”

Derek looked longingly at the girls, “Can I visit them?”

Stiles felt gutted (and he knew what that felt like). He was coming to the sudden and somewhat horrifying realization that Derek was not responsible for what happened with Jennifer. What she had done to the Derek was just another violation in the footsteps of Kate Argent.

_Fuck._

“You’re crying,” Derek said, confused.

Without any free hands to wipe away the evidence, Stiles huffed at the obvious. “Yeah Sourwolf. I am.”

Without saying the words, those classic brows expressed Derek’s confusion.

“Of course you can see them,” Stiles sniffled messily, “They’re your daughters.”

There was that awed look again. Derek looked again at the matching dark crowns of hair held to Stiles chest. “Daughters?”

Giving another broken noise, Stiles nodded, “Twins.” He rolled his eyes at himself. “Obviously.” He poked out one elbow, “This is Liene Michaela Hale,” he introduced football number one, “and this hungry vacuum is Awen Theodora Hale.”

“You gave them my name?” Derek said in confusion.

“Yeah.”

“Why--?”

Stiles shrugged, “They’re Hales.” _And because I’m a sap_ , he added silently.

“They’re beautiful.”

Desperately in need of a third arm, Stiles tried discretely to snuffle his disgusting nose, “They’re five and a half pound hungry pink raisins with your hair,” he deflected.

Derek snorted, “And your nose.” Nothing could hide the awe in his voice. It made Stiles uncomfortably tingly.

Liene cracked open her dark eyes, a darker shade of the indistinguishable baby blue of most infants, and yawned around a mouthful of milk. It was pretty Stilinski-like if Stiles had any say. But right now the emotions were already running pretty high in the small studio apartment so Stiles kept the observation to himself.

“Do you want to burp her?” Stiles asked as he wiped her mouth awkwardly one-handed.

“Yes--!” Derek tried to look like he hadn’t answered before Stiles had finished asking the question. Stiles lips twitched despite himself. He didn’t even have to lean forward to hand over his oldest, Derek was right there reaching for Liene. He even supported her underdeveloped neck properly. Stiles wasn’t expecting the sight to steal his breath away.

It was a rare opportunity to have a free hand. Stiles didn’t know what to even. Well actually, yeah. Kleenex. He attempted to discretely blow his nose.  

Derek had Liene over one firm shoulder, having smartly thrown a spit-up cloth over his shirt first. Smart man. He was gently patting the teeny tiny infant on the back. Stiles knew he didn’t _technically_ have ovaries, but still. Exploding was happening. It wasn’t fair.

“How--?”

Stiles looked up as Derek’s voice died into oblivion. He guessed what he was trying to ask. How had he, a _boy_ , gotten pregnant? How did their few clandestine yet passionate evenings together over the summer result in two three-day-old babies?

Well, tough. Stiles still didn’t quite understand it yet himself. Deaton had yet to give him a satisfactory answer.

He shrugged. “If you can believe the opinion of a secretive emissary it’s because of my spark--?”

Derek looked mystified, “The thing that you make mountain ash shields with?”

“I guess?” Stiles said vaguely. He gestured at himself, “Tah dah! Spark + Werewolf + no condom apparently means magical werewolf babies.” He grumbled, “I missed that chapter in the Bestiary.”

“They’re werewolves?” Derek looked surprised.  

“Teeny tiny terror twins,” Stiles quipped. “Or they will be when they’re older I guess. Too young for the _‘grrr’_ yet.” _Thank god,_ he thought. _My poor nips may never be the same._

Really though. Derek had to stop looking adorably overwhelmed with good news. It was making Stiles melt. His reservations were rapidly disappearing. Hurt was being replaced by the stupid adorable sight of his daughter in her other daddy’s arms.

Fuckiddy fuck.

So much for Deaton’s back up. Somehow Stiles figured the ex-vet, ex-emissary knew about Derek’s presence, and current non-darrach status and had let the Alpha breeze on in.

There would be words.

Stiles looked at Derek rocking his sleepy infant daughter.

Strong words.

“Don’t let her sleep yet, she needs to be changed in a minute,” Stiles said around a yawn. He detached Awen and lifted her up to his own shoulder for her own round of burping. He couldn’t resist pressing his nose against her warm little back. Her baby smell was soothing.

Derek made a noise of assent and reached for a clean diaper without prompting.

His standards of attractiveness were rapidly evolving, Stiles thought as he watched Derek deftly change Lee. God did everything that man do have to look incredible? Even changing stinky newborn diapers.

Stiles decided he needed another nap soon. Before he did, or said, something stupid.

He realized he had stopped patting Awen’s back and pulled her back. “Hey jelly bean, let’s get your little butt changed.”

The little fart nommed on her fist, looking unimpressed. Stiles was beginning to recognize that expression. He’d be safe to wait on the diaper change just a _few_ more minutes . . .

Derek was watching him, eyebrow raised. Then his face cleared with understanding once the smell reached his nose.

Babies changed and fed, Stiles sagged tiredly against the headboard. “And this is normally naptime—”

“You need to eat first,” Derek said, firmly. “I can hear your stomach consuming itself.”

Screwing up his face in disgust, Stiles hated that the reminder of food prompted a rather embarrassing digestive rumble. He put Awen on the co-sleeper and reached for the food Deaton left earlier.

The chicken sandwich disappeared faster than Stiles wanted but honestly he was too tired to chew. He drank some more water.

Then he watched Derek blearily.

There was a part of him; the cautious, hurt, part of himself that warned against falling asleep in the presence of the Alpha werewolf. He was vulnerable. His daughters, more so. But just in the short amount of time he’d spent with Derek, hearing what had happened, the unspoken trust between them was renewing.

It felt brittle. But it was _something_.

“I can watch them while you sleep?” Derek offered.

It was an empty gesture and they both knew it. The girls were just as tired as Stiles and no one was doing anything until they’d caught a few zzz’s but Stiles recognized the question for what it was.

Would Stiles let him stay?

Stiles let the unspoken question hang in the air while he swaddled the babies for their nap. The girls safely looked after, he carefully scooched closer to them on the bed, dragging his wool blanket over his shoulder.

“Just—don’t wake them up,” Stiles said finally, ending the suspense he knew had to be killing Derek. (So he was getting his revenge in small, petty, ways—sue him) With his back to the Alpha in the room, Stiles listened to the sound of Derek carefully easing himself against the headboard in order to watch over them.

It loosened something that had been wound tight in Stiles’ breastbone long before he left Beacon Hills.

He closed his burning eyes, not daring to hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays and Happy New Year. 2016 can suck it. :D


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another year has gone by but life is like that.  
> My tenses are probably shit but I don't care. I'm posting because if I don't I'll blink and it will be next Christmas. 
> 
> Music to listen to:  
> Put one foot in front of the other - Mickey Rooney/Keenan Wynn OR Miami Relatives if you want a fresh punk version :)
> 
> I miss my Sterek boys.

The ropes burned tight around his wrists and ankles. When Stiles was able to blink his way to consciousness he immediately tested their strength. By the unforgiving way they pulled at his skin he realized it wasn’t the first time he has struggled with them.

“Relax Stiles,” a smug voice reached him.

He raised his throbbing head to glare at Jennifer Blake who was leaning against a stack of dusty crates.

“You don’t want to get worked up,” she said leadingly, “with your cargo.”

Stiles jerked his arms instinctively trying to cover his belly from her gaze but all it did was make the chair rattle. “Fuck you,” he snarled through stabs of nausea. The blow to the head she had given him to knock him out would have worried him in any other situation where his unborn children were not the topic of discussion.

“What do you want with me? M’not a virgin.” He found himself slurring. He tried not to think about it. How _she_ was now where he thought he belonged. With Derek. Fuck, no—goddammit!

“No honey, I know that,” she said sympathetically with her big brown eyes and soft pink lips. Stiles hated her like he’d never hated anyone before. “You’re not. But your babies are--”

The breath was stolen from his lungs at her admission. _What?!_

“What?! NO!” Stiles struggled wildly. “You can’t hurt them!!”

She had the audacity to look regretful. “I’m sorry Stiles. Their sacrifice in addition to yours as Guardian and Spark is too special to ignore. You will be the final piece needed in my revenge. Just think. You will be the reason why there will be no more Alpha Pack murdering innocents across the country.”

Her deranged enthusiasm couldn’t reach Stiles. He was struggling not to let a panic attack take over. If he passed out in the rickety chair again, he wasn’t sure he would wake up. He had to keep his eyes on her. He had to get out.

Jennifer pushed away from the crates and Stiles jerked back nervously.

She laughed. “Don’t worry. The moon has to be higher in the sky for what I need you for. I’m going to go visit Derek and the others. They’re so adorable when they’re missing one of their own. Completely distracted.”

“They’ll figure it out,” Stiles found himself standing up for the Pack that had all but abandoned him the past few weeks.

The Darrach just smirked knowingly. She wiggled her fingers at him in farewell as she sauntered down the dark tunnel.

Stiles glared at her back until his eyes watered. Then he wrinkled his nose in an attempt to fend off the helpless tears that spilled from the corners involuntarily. He couldn’t afford to wait for rescue. Not just because he didn’t think anyone was coming, because even if they knew he was missing it didn’t sound like they were actively searching for him, rather because he couldn’t waste a second more. Now that he knew Jennifer wanted him for the babies, he had to get the fuck out of Beacon Hills. They were all he had left of Derek and he would go down fighting to keep them.

“It’s okay.” Stiles muttered to himself, so what if it was to soothe the little glowing beans that he could sense with his Spark, it helped to give him something to focus on as well. “It’s alright. I’m gonna get us out of here.” He was twisting his wrists with a pained hiss, trying to get his middle finger lined up with the hemp rope.

Thank god for his never-ending curiosity for unique items or gag gifts. So he never thought _this_ would be how he’d end up using his titanium escape ring. Honestly, he thought it would get him out of his dad’s cuffs one time or another. With a deft twist of his long digits he released the slender but nearly indestructible shim hidden on the inside. With its serrated edge, he began to saw at the rope lashing him to the chair.

Gnawing at his lip nervously, Stile’s muttered to himself, “+1 evasion and +1 charisma, who’s laughing at my ring now Scott?”

It was an agonizingly long time before he could feel any give at all in the rope. By then his arms were screaming at him from the awkward angle but he didn’t dare take a break in case his muscles locked up. His fingers were slippery with blood or sweat, he couldn’t tell. At least he couldn’t drop the ring. Thank gods for small mercies.

He almost didn’t feel the rope slacken, his arms were so numb. He blinked out of the haze he had fallen into while concentrating everything on the sawing motion with his fingers. The rope was hanging limply in his hands and he was ashamed to say he spent a good minute or two blinking sweat out of his bleary eyes.

“Shit,” he cursed when he tried to bring his arms forward and discovered too late that he had been right to worry about his muscles locking up. It was a nightmare child of Charlie horse and paresthesia. “Ah fuck!!”

It still sucked but after a moment, Stiles cradled his arms in his lap and hunched over. It was as bad as he thought. His wrists were basically raw flesh. He had to focus on the still gleaming titanium shim and not throw up.

He was old man slow as he leaned over to get to his ankles. It would not be a good time to pass out now and with his aching head and rebelling stomach it was a real threat. Stiles tried to take slow deep breaths as he began to saw at the final knot holding him in place.

While he painstakingly cut through the jute, Stiles tried to think of an escape plan. It was kind of difficult considering he had no idea where Jennifer stashed him. But once he got out and found his bearings he would get in his Jeep and just fucking drive. He’d figure it all out later when his impossible werewolf babies weren’t being threatened with sacrifice.

How had he gotten here? Stiles didn’t notice the tears dripping from the tip of his nose. For a short while after the whole Gerard thing, through the search for Erica and Boyd—he sniffled messily—he and Derek had started to get along. Stiles felt a sad laugh hiccup in his chest. Yeah, get along. That was one way to describe it. Reluctant bonding over Scott’s dumbass betrayal, hanging out in the old decrepit Hale manor until he couldn’t stand the passive-aggressive despair any longer and needled the broody Alpha until he found a more permanent residence to live in. Dragging said Alpha to Ikea for the very basic of basics. Like a bed. And a couch. That was about the sum of it. Stiles had bit his lip darn near bloody not to make commentary on the minimalist decor considering it was a step up from werewolf mortuary.

With the lack of proper furniture, they had used the bed to spread out the map they used to mark the places they had searched for the missing betas. Stiles honestly couldn’t remember the exact moment leaning over the map had gone from triangulation to kisses without coming up for air.

The following weeks were the most confusing and arguably the best in Stiles short life.

He had to stop sawing for a moment and scrub angrily at his blurring eyes.

So then of course the Alpha Pack came to town and shit hit the fan. Scott told him Derek had fucking died fighting in the abandoned mall. And when he got back from that horrible road-trip with the lacrosse team he’d gone straight to Derek’s loft with his heart in his throat. Hoping against all hope.

Only to open those stupid heavy doors to find his English teacher, Ms. Blake blissfully riding Derek on the very bed where . . .

Anyway. From that point on Stiles barely existed to Derek. It was the wakeup call he needed to realize exactly what he was to anybody _ever_. Just a stand in for something better.

His state of numbness was only further compounded by his fathers’ increasing disappointment and Scott’s preoccupation with Isaac. Case in point, right?

Only the persistent nausea and violent rejection of perfume and/or food that contained eggs in combination with the frightening glow his Spark revealed coming from his lower abdomen made him consult Deaton, never mind the full blown hysterics that followed the revelation he was pregnant with Derek Hale’s baby.

The rope tied around his ankles, tied with what Stiles considered unnecessary skill, finally came apart in his hands and he exhaled a hitching sob of relief. “Okay baby beans were getting out of here.” He threw the offending rope as far as his malfunctioning arms could manage. He slipped the shim back into its home under the ring so it wouldn’t accidentally stab him and cautiously stretched his legs out.

They weren’t as bad as his arms but they still protested the movement. Optimism trickling back, Stiles carefully braced himself against the chair and tested how well he handled getting to his feet. Slowly.

His vision blurred but he breathed through the swimminess and the increase in throbbing until it eased. It wasn’t a good sign but as long as he didn’t have to do anything too athletic, like a sudden tuck and roll, he should be okay.

Out of nowhere he began humming a song from an old Christmas special he remembered watching with his parents. “ _Put one foot in front of the other—_ ” He huffed at himself but it was impossible to stop. His brain ladies and gentleman. _“—and soon you’ll be walking across the floor—_ ” Stiles shuffled carefully away from the chair, his arms up and out cautiously in case he needed to catch himself. He wasn’t taking any chances at falling in his condition.

With careful aching shifts of his eyes Stiles tried to figure out where he was. The dirt walls and what looked like roots seemed to indicate he was underground. That didn’t make him feel claustrophobic or anything. Fuck.

His voice wobbled, “ _you’ll never get where you’re going, if you never get up on your feet_.” Stiles’ legs were feeling weak so he gave in and leaned against one side of the tunnel for a moment. He couldn’t see very well here. The flickering light from the lantern Jennifer had left in the space where he’d been tied up was starting to fade. The change in light made his eyes hurt even more and Stiles pressed a shaking hand against his closed eye lids.

He couldn’t afford to linger, he argued with himself. So he pushed forward.

“—M’on Stiles,” he rasped, “ _If your time of life is at hand, well don’t be the rule, be the exception._ ” Was it wrong, that even though his attempt at carrying a tune was completely fucked, he could almost hear the memory of his mother’s sweet voice joining in, “ _A good way to start is to stand._ ”

He wasn’t expecting to walk into a door but in the darkness there was no warning. Stiles cursed and almost fell back on his ass when his forehead smacked into something unforgiving. Windmilling his arms, he managed to stay upright by the skin of his teeth. Smoothing his hands over the rough surface of what seemed to be a wooden door, he prayed Jennifer didn’t have the same foresight to lock it behind herself that she had with the friggin’ triple Celtic knots back there.

Stiles was sure he had a new lump on his head to join the other one. Was it possible to have a double concussion? Instead of prodding the new site of throbbing pain which was his wont, he reached for the door instead. Spanning his hands over the rough surface Stiles searched for a door knob, or latch or something.

Before he could devolve into panic, his fingers scrabbled over some kind of cold iron hinge. Stiles let out a relieved breath. Exploring the shape in the dark he determined how it worked and pressed down on the top hinge.

Gnawing shamelessly at his raw lips, Stiles prayed to whatever deity looked out for Sparks and tugged on the door.

It came free with a little vacuum puff of air and he couldn’t help freezing at his good fortune.

“ _P-put one foot_ ,” Stiles breathed as he swung the door open the rest of the way, “ _in front of the other, and soon—_ ”

He took a step out and found himself looking out at the nighttime Preserve.

For some reason he hadn’t been expecting that. His stomach sunk in dread. He didn’t know if he could walk through the woods in the pitch dark with a probable concussion. His legs went out from underneath him and he scrabbled at the tree trunk in order to stay upright.

“No—fuck! No!” Stiles exclaimed in denial. He wrapped one arm around his belly instinctively as he sat woozily on the ground.

His ears picked up the sound of footfall. He wasn’t foolish enough to think that they belonged to someone friendly. As he listed against the tree half-conscious he despaired, reaching for his Spark as a last ditch effort.

It resisted him. Dancing frustratingly out of his reach.

“N-nggrrh,” he slurred as he felt darkness reaching out to claim him.

A pair of men’s shoes were the last thing Stiles remembered before . . .

 

He was gently shook awake.

“Stiles? Hey—wake up. You’re having a bad dream,” a concerned voice said.

That familiar voice brought Stiles fully out of his dream, he blinked up at the face looking down at him. “Derek?” He said in confusion. He whipped his head around looking for the babies, panic growing.

“It’s okay. They’re still sleeping,” Derek correctly interpreted his fear.

Stiles tried to sit up too fast and hissed at the burning protest of his stomach. Derek immediately placed a supportive arm behind his shoulders and got him situated with pillows behind his back.

“Thanks,” Stiles said, eyeing the Alpha warily.

Derek huffed at the way he was looking at him, his shoulders drooping. “Look, I know it can’t be comfortable with me here.” His lips tightened, “but I want to help.” He saw the pissed-off expression on Stiles’ face and hurried to explain, “Not because you need my help. Because I—” He growled. “Stiles. Dammit. I came here looking for you. Nothing feels right without you.”

There was a lump in Stiles’ throat. He avoided looking at the Alpha and stared instead at his sleeping daughters. Liene had thrown her fist into Awen’s face and the latter was opportunistically sucking at the offered knuckles. He thought he might know which daughter took more after him.

Finally, Stiles looked back to Derek. “I have to think of them now,” he said solemnly.

Derek looked up where he was staring hangdog at the grey blanket covering Stiles’ feet. “Of course!” He burst out. “I would never do anything to suggest otherwise! I just. I don’t— I don’t want to lose you again.”

It looked like Derek wanted to slide under the bed in mortification at his admission.

That scruffy red face of his made Stiles want to smoosh his cheeks together and coo. _Wow_. He was hanging around babies too much if that was his first instinct around an Alpha. No matter how adorable he was being.

Then Derek’s words sank in and Stiles swallowed hard. “I don’t either.” He found it hard to admit. He was scared. Scared to get hurt again. Scared to put his kids in danger.

But Stiles hadn’t been the only one to suffer at the hands of the Darrach. Derek had been an unwilling puppet and honestly Stiles couldn’t examine that too closely or he’d go a little crazy.

He found himself fascinated with the hint of a smile flirting with the edges of Derek’s lips. “Where do we start?” the Alpha asked him.

Stiles looked over at his quietly stirring babies. Awen didn’t look happy her makeshift soother was missing and was on a countdown to hunger meltdown.  “We take care of them.” He said softly.

Derek looked like he’d just been handed something incredibly fragile and precious and he was terrified of breaking it. In a way he had.

Stiles looked at that terror and awe and knew exactly how it felt. He still felt that way when he stopped to think, only he didn’t usually have the time to dwell on it between feedings and diaper changes.

Speaking of which—

When he went to reach forward for the girls, Stiles found Derek’s hand gently placed on his chest. He looked up at the man questioningly.

“I’ll get them for you. You just rest. I can do the diaper changes too if you want.” Derek’s cheeks underneath the dark scruff were still a little pink.

That—sounded good actually. Stiles made grabby hands towards the babies and smiled when Derek snorted at his actions.

He could get used to this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not the end.  
> I just can't give a timeline for a next chapter. So who knows when. I just hope you enjoyed this one. Merry Holidays to all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh. Merry Christmas?   
> Aheh.   
> Well. My life is the cray-cray. I may have another chapter before 2019. If I can hide in my closet from life. 
> 
> Music to read by: Change My Life - Ashes Remain

“Stop that,”

Stiles spit out the thumb he was chewing raw and looked over at Derek who took the moment to look away from the road.

“You promise you’re not taking us back to Beacon Hills,” Stiles couldn’t help asking, it felt like the fiftieth time.

“I swear I won’t take you back before you’re ready,” Derek said firmly.

“But you won’t tell me where you’re taking us.” Stiles checked.

Derek smiled. “Deaton and the McLeod Pack approved the plans, Stiles. Try to relax. You’re anxiety is going to wake the pu—the babies up.”

Shooting a look over the headrest at his two slumbering girls, Stiles was mollified. He slumped back into his seat and watched the scenery pass by with barely contained uneasiness. He couldn’t help wondering what all the secrecy was for.

It had been a while since he’d been out in public so blatantly. So that was part of his concern. It was an irrational fear but one he’d had nine months to cultivate. He had to remind himself that he was no longer visibly a freak of nature. If someone saw him with two babies, the worst thing they could dream up was that he was an underage father.

The past few days had been spent him and Derek quietly getting used to each other again. Not to mention the whole new parents thing. He was sure Derek had been content to stay holed up in the apartment because he’d been afraid he was dreaming it all up. Stiles had witnessed Derek hesitate more than a few times before touching the girls, as if he was convinced they were just a precious hallucination that would disappear with the wrong move.

It hurt to see that kind of fragility in the Alpha.

Stiles knew how it felt. Like, having Derek here when he’d been convinced the Alpha was lost to him. Certain with a bleak, horrible despair that the last memory he would have of Derek would be the one of Ms. Blake stark and _wrong_ in Derek’s bed—that, and the receding sight of the Beacon Hills sign in Deaton’s rear-view mirror.

A movement caught Stiles’ eye and he looked over questioningly. Derek had placed his right hand, palm-up on the center console. His chameleon eyes were resolutely fixed on the road but the wrinkle between his eyebrows gave his uncertainty away.

Stiles looked at Derek’s open palm. His heart ka-thumped in his chest. Slowly, he unwound his hands from where he’d crammed them under his crossed arms in an attempt to keep from chewing at them like a trapped animal. He entwined his bitten fingers with Derek’s, slowly but deliberately.

Jennifer was dead. She had no power over them. Stiles thought firmly. And hell if he was gonna let her shade keep them apart any longer.

Derek’s fingers closing around his felt natural. Warm. Stiles bit the inside of his lip at the powerful emotion that welled up at the simple gesture. He couldn’t help the stupid smile that pulled at his lips. He ducked his head to look out his window in an attempt to hide it.

The slight squeeze he felt around his hand meant he wasn’t completely successful. Stiles didn’t feel too bad about it.

There were a few key features that Stiles and his sharp mind couldn’t overlook about their road trip though. The ridiculously new FJ cruiser that they were driving, for one. It had been waiting for them outside the house when Stiles got up that morning. Already packed to the gills with luggage that Stiles new didn’t come from his place. He didn’t own enough stuff to fit _one_ of those large suitcases. Then there were the newborn car seats’ lined with _lamb’s wool pockets_ to keep the twin’s safe and warm. Not to mention the suspiciously smug papawolf that slid behind the wheel.

He’d seen Derek talking on his phone early yesterday morning but assumed he’d been reporting to the Pack. So of course the first thing Stiles had anticipated when he’d seen all this was that Derek was trying to take him back to Beacon Hill’s.

There _might_ have been a Spark enhanced freak out. Which may or may not have involved his cross-stitch needles and Derek’s _ass_.

Good thing werewolves healed quickly and Derek had cleared up the misunderstanding while picking tiny aluminum spines out of his maligned cheeks.

Stiles’ face was a little warm as he remembered his embarrassment. So he might be a little hormonal, or whatever, he was still getting used to being someone’s ‘mom’. Plus, Derek’s ass on display was always a pleasure. Sue him.

All the evidence pointed at a road trip, obviously. A getaway spot most likely. Now he just had to figure out where and why.

Next to him, Derek’s lips curved slightly upwards like he knew the thoughts that were racing through Stiles’ brain. “Relax. We have a while to go yet and you might as well enjoy the quiet while the babies sleep.”

Looking over at the impeccably groomed man with a bemused expression, Stiles couldn’t find fault in his statement. He really shouldn’t waste quiet time.

“Fine,” he said reluctantly. Reclining his seat carefully, Stiles squirmed around until he was comfortable without letting go of Derek’s hand. Then he deliberately closed his eyes and let the exhaustion that was his constant companion sweep him under.

 

A car door closing jolted Stiles from his sleep with a jarring surge of terror fueled adrenaline. He sat up too fast, ignoring the burning wrench in his abdomen and twisted in a wild attempt to get his bearings.

 _The babies--!_ Was his immediate driving concern.

When the passenger door opened quickly next to his elbow, Stiles let out an aborted cry, flailing in an unsuccessful bid to grab something to use as a weapon.

“Stiles!!” Derek exclaimed, lunging forward to grab hold of Stiles’ arms before he could hurt himself accidentally. “Stiles it’s me! It’s just me! Shh, we’re safe. Hey, the girls are fine.”

“Derek?” Stiles blinked at him, letting the firm hands holding him by the upper arms, ground him. “Derek.” His eyes began to clear as he took in his surroundings with more comprehension. “I—I’m sorry,” he stuttered.

Stiles could feel Derek sag a little with relief. The werewolf scrubbed a hand over his face, “I should have been a little more careful waking you up. _Fuck--_ ” he exhaled.

Looking past Derek, Stiles took in their surroundings. “Where the hell are we?”

With a final reassuring squeeze, Derek stood back up. He cleared his throat and looked anywhere but at Stiles, “We’re at a cabin. For a little break. Um, because you deserve to have—one. A break I mean.”

Stiles was honestly flabbergasted as he stared at the tongue-tied Alpha.

A cabin, if you could call it that, was waiting for them through a winding path through snow covered trees.

“A murder break?” Stiles found himself asking in bewilderment.

Derek scowled. “No.” He huffed. Which looked kinda hilarious with the accompanying frosty puff of air. “It’s more of a ‘thank god you didn’t die, thank you for the miracle of our daughters, let me take you away for a weekend’ kind of break.”

Stiles didn’t know what to say. “Derek--” was all he managed.

A cold gust of air made him shiver and he squirmed to pull his jacket closed but the movement made him hiss with pain. He must have pulled something when he jackknifed awake. Lovely.

“Let’s get you inside,” Derek quickly assessed the situation. “Stay there for a sec. I’ll get the girls.”

“M’kay,” Stiles panted, his hand pressing tightly against his sore stomach.

Derek was quick. The babies were quickly collected, still warmly bundled in their lamb’s wool pockets (Stiles briefly wished he had one of his own). Derek handed the stirring twins over for Stiles to hold and then he hoisted them all into his strong arms.

“Oh my god,” Stiles lamented, as Derek began the trek to the cabin, “There goes the last of my man card!”

“What man card?” Derek scoffed under his breath.

With narrow eyes, Stiles looked up at the jut of stubble in his face. He couldn’t help being inspired by his cross-stitch. “Sleep well. I’ll most likely kill you in the morning,” he said with deliberate intonation.

Derek tripped in surprise.

“Stiles!” He protested, snorting out a laugh. “What the hell?!”

As his heartbeat regulated from the split second of fear that he was about to be the reason he and his babies were going to take a header into the snow, Stiles exhaled a relieved laugh. “Princess Bride? Derek, really? Oh it’s on. We are so watching it!!” He was delighted.

“We’ll see,” Derek’s face rearranged into its usual stoic mask, but Stiles was on to him. His scruffy lip was twitching.

Wow. The ‘cabin’ was even bigger up close, Stiles marveled. For a log cabin there was an impressive amount of windows. The enormous stone flue that bisected the front of the building boasted a cozy evening ahead. The cabin was bigger than his childhood home. Hell, it might actually be bigger than the old Hale house—

His thoughts were interrupted by his very hungry twins who didn’t care one iota about going on a curiosity fueled treasure-hunt.

Derek deposited them in the first available room along with the diaper bag while he went back to empty the car of their luggage. Stiles immediately shucked off his sweater and undershirt so that he could scoop up his ear-piercing baby were’s and maneuver them into their familiar double latch.

He only relaxed when the girls were feeding strongly. Blessed silence descended around him. When he opened his eyes after a few moments of scrambling for sanity Stiles could only stare at the bomb of desperation that he’d left in his wake. There were discarded jackets and boots and baby liners trailing the path they made to the couch where he sat slumped.

“Woah,” he breathed in horrified awe.

“I’ll get it,” Derek’s voice came from the entrance. “You relax—”

Then Stiles took in the room they were in and he gawped at the cathedral ceiling with its massive ornate cast-iron chandelier. The wall of windows at the back overlooked what looked like the slate grey stillness of a conifer edged lake. “ _Woah_ ,” he repeated, this time suitably impressed.

Derek made his reappearance while Stiles was still studying the layout of the room. He quickly tidied up their mess and joined him on the couch. “What do you think?” He asked in a low voice.

“It’s beautiful Derek. Whose place is this?”

Getting up to feed a log onto a banked fire, Derek fiddled with the poker for a minute without responding. “I talked to Alpha MacLeod,” He began, his back to Stiles. “They told me what they knew of your story. I told them what I could of mine. I—I told her I wanted to make some of it up to you—”

When Stiles started to cut in Derek raised his hand pleadingly, “I do Stiles. I want—I _need_ to make this right. I know it’s going to take more than just a little gesture . . . but can we start with this? Will you let me?”

Derek’s expression was what cinched it for Stiles. Not that he hadn’t been willing to try before. But hearing the earnestness in Derek’s gruff voice was a bit overwhelming.

“Okay,” Stiles replied quietly. He looked down as Awen detatched from his nipple with a smack of her rosy lips. He smiled with a softness he had never felt before his girls. “Hey peanut. Done?”

Derek eagerly moved to take her from Stiles in order to burp and change her.

Looking down at Liene who had almost nursed herself back to sleep, Stiles snuck his thumb under her bottom lip to detatch her suction and wipe up the milk spilling from the corner of her mouth. Her tiny nose scrunched up in unhappiness but Stiles quickly placed a burp cloth over his shoulder and hiked his little bundle into place.

“I’m not looking forward to unwrapping these two,” he commented as he patted her back to encourage her to burp up any air bubbles. “They’ve been sitting in whatever for the car ride. It’s going to be ripe.”

Derek grunted a reply and Stiles rolled his eyes. He got the feeling even with the supernatural sense of smell, Derek would gladly handle a toxic spill if it came from their girls. His stomach curled with a warm feeling. He felt the same way. He never in a million years thought he’d be where he was. He talked the talk but he’d change stinky diapers forever too if he got to keep this.

With the girls liberally powdered and changed into fresh onesies, both men seemed reluctant to leave the coziness of the sprawling couch.

“So the cabin belongs to the MacLeod Pack?” Stiles asked, his own shirts back on. He occasionally peppered Liene with smacking kisses, making her squirm and flail with open mouthed excitement.

“Alpha MacLeod, actually,” Derek said, with Awen laying on his chest. “It was built by her grandfather.”

“So we’re where--? In the wilds of Canada?” Stiles joked, “Montana?”

Derek shoved his toes into Stiles’ thigh playfully, “No idiot. Lake Tahoe.”

Stiles grinned, pleasantly surprised that Derek was relaxing around him. “Nice,” he said. “Always wanted to visit.”

“Yeah?” Derek arched a brow, “My family came up here all the time to skii.”

“Ha—skiing.” Stiles snorted. “No. Not exactly my thing, as you can imagine. But my dad told stories of camping up here when he was a boy.”

Derek nodded. “It’s nice.”

Stiles smiled with a bit of nostalgia. “I used to enjoy camping. You know. Pitching a tent, having a bonfire. S’mores. Not whatever the hell we do in the woods; running, bleeding, hiding. It would be nice to do it the old fashioned way once in a while.”

Derek was quiet, looking at how Awen’s tiny pink fingers barely managed to meet around his finger. After a loaded minute, he looked up at Stiles. “I don’t want to do it anymore.”

He didn’t have to elaborate what _it_ was.

Stiles lips tightened. “How do we do that though? How can we keep the danger away?”

“It won’t be perfect, but,” Derek hesitated, raising his predominantly green eyes, “We start by using our brains. Make allies. Treaties. Learn each other’s strengths instead of relying on a defensive Alpha that was never meant to take leadership.”

Stiles realized what a major admission this was for Derek. Huge. He restrained the caustic urge to point out that they could have been doing this already if they had only listened to his suggestions to the pack from before but it was painfully clear to both of them now and being a jerk about it wouldn’t solve anything.

“You were just trying to do what was right.” Stiles offered. “You did what you could with a shitty situation.” He thought of all the circumstances Derek had been up against since returning to Beacon Hills and grimaced. “Seriously dude, it’s not all on you.”

Derek dipped his head in acknowledgement, if not in agreement. Stiles realized it would take time for the Alpha to work through his guilt.

Liene squawked and Stiles brought his attention back to his daughter with a ready smile. “What? Was I not giving you enough kisses, missy?” He crooned. She kicked her heels out in an excited response to his voice, her dark blue eyes trying to focus on his face and crossing in wide eyed consternation. Stiles laughed at her expression.

Across the couch, Awen was cradled in Derek’s arm, trying unsuccessfully to pull his finger into her seeking mouth.

“I never—I” Derek attempted to say. His expression was both shattered and filled with a painful kind of hope. He looked up at Stiles. “Stiles.” His voice was wrecked.

Stiles swallowed thickly. “They’re kinda awesome--?” he said shakily.

Derek huffed out a breathless laugh. “Yeah.” His face grew tender, “Yeah they are.”

It was incredible just to be able to sit there with Derek on the couch with their twins and bask in their luck for once. The light in the windows slowly changed direction and grew increasingly dim. Only the feral growl from Stiles’ empty stomach was enough to break the contented huddle.

“I’ll go see what is in the kitchen,” Derek said, handing over Awen.

“Okay,” Stiles catipulated sleepily.

However it seemed once Derek was up Stiles’ attention was likewise ready to be active. He wiggled himself into an upright position against the couch pillows and began to take stock of his surroundings.

The living room, or perhaps more appropriately the _den_ , was large and open with vaulted cedar post and beam ceilings. All the walls and even the floor seemed to be made from the same warm hued wood. Stiles guessed it was locally sourced. Across from where he sat of course was the merrily crackling fire. It was contained by a huge fireplace made of gathered river stones. Each painstakingly placed.

There was a large thick rug that took up most of the floor, and a round coffee table stuffed with books and knickknacks. The super cozy couch he was reluctant to part with was the largest piece of furniture in the room; being L-shaped and covered in cushions and cozy blankets. He could be perfectly happy right there, Stiles decided. He gazed out over his children’s sleepy heads, the warmth of the fire making his face tingle pleasantly. The view he had of the lake from the huge French doors behind the other arm of the couch was bright, and white, but enjoyable only from his toasty warm cocoon.

He found himself pleasantly content. A state he could not remember being in a long time. Stiles didn’t let himself dwell on it too long in case it ruined the happy glow.

“I almost don’t want to disturb you,” Derek’s quiet rumble startled Stiles from a light doze. He blinked up at him in surprise.

“Oh!” He took in the soft expression on Derek’s face and felt his own burning in embarrassment, “Sorry.” He held out his free hand for the tray that Derek was carrying.

Holding it just out of his reach, Derek jutted his chin to the girls, “Put them on the couch next to you, I’ll watch them while you eat,”

Stiles gnawed at his lip. “Okay.”

That done, Derek handed it over and Stiles got his first hit of rich flavorful steam. His stomach made an unholy noise at the delicious thick broth-y smell. “Ohmygod,” he groaned, “I forgot how hungry I was! Smells amazing Derek, thank you--!”

Holding a palm up, Derek quickly forestalled his praise, “As much as I would love to take the credit, whoever prepared the cabin for us went above and beyond. The fridge is full of meals just ready to be heated up.”

Stiles wasn’t ashamed of the dropped jaw he was sporting. Well maybe he wouldn’t have been if it wasn’t full of Beef Stew. “Her—my—grewd—!” He garbled.

Derek was staring at him with upward curving lips. He shook his head fondly. “We’ll have to thank the McLeod Pack properly.”

Blushing furiously, Stiles nodded with his mouth closed this time. His eyes dropped to the floor although he couldn’t get the vision of Derek’s smile out of his head. “Yeah,” he said finally, after swallowing. “Yes, I mean. Definitely. So much thanks.”

Mentally kicking himself over how ridiculous he was acting around Derek, Stiles occupied himself with eating the delicious hearty stew. He wasn’t exaggerating, it really was the best thing he’d put in his mouth in a while.

He did _not_ choke at as that thought came to its conclusion. Even his brain was embarrassing.

Derek looked up from where he was playing with Awen’s toes, “You okay?”

Stiles nodded fervently. Eyes down.

When the bowl was empty and he could only do so much to the streaks of leftover broth with a spoon (using his thumb, in present company was pushing the limit, a bit). Stiles sat back with a content sigh. “That was so good.”

Derek took his turn, seemingly not minding his slightly cooler bowl. It was gone almost as fast as Stiles’. “Do you want another helping?” He asked Stiles.

“No man, I’m good, thanks. If I eat any more I might start leaking through my stitches.” Stiles joked. He rubbed absently at his abdomen. It was getting a little easier to move around. The redness of his scar was less pulsating and angry. Deaton’s salve was clearly doing its job of speeding along his recovery. Or, as Deaton would have him believe, allowing his spark to do what would have been natural by now if Stiles’ had received training for his latent abilities.

Stiles smiled at his daughters who were deep into sleep now. Sleep sucking, he thought it was just a ‘him’ thing. Huh.

He’d have to figure out sleeping arrangements. As comfy as the couch was for him it was no place for the girls.

Derek’s peaceful face suddenly drew into a scowl and Stiles blinked at the sudden dissonance. The Alpha reached behind himself and drew a cell phone from his back pocket. It was vibrating in his hand. He looked up at Stiles. “It’s the pack.” His voice deepened in timbre with his displeasure.

Stiles’ tensed. “I’m not—I don’t want to talk to anyone,” he said curtly, gathering the babies into his arms as if sensing a threat. Derek didn’t look happy at his response but he nodded his understanding.

“I have to answer. They will get antsy if I don’t check in.”

Stiles nodded, lips tight.

“What,” Derek answered the phone curtly.

Suddenly Stiles had a giddy sense of jumping back in time. It was like he suddenly had the brooding monosyllabic Alpha that he’d given his loyalty to at the beginning of summer. The Derek Hale that he’d been so frustrated, fascinated, and drawn to. The sound of that familiar barking, impatient, voice made Stiles absurdly melancholy.

Derek looked up sharply, eyes narrowing on Stiles as though he could sense the change in his demeanor. Which he probably could, Stiles realized.

“He’s not ready,” Derek said to the phone, or rather, whoever was on the other end. Was it Scott? His dad?

Stiles sank back into the couch as if he could disappear into the cushions. He really didn’t have anything to say to them. Maybe someday. But their ambivalence still hurt like an alien chest burster on a good day. He knew that Jennifer Blake had little to do with how Scott and his father had basically ignored him for months up to his disappearance. His hurt and disappointment at their distance had been growing for the past year.

“I’ll call if anything changes.” Derek said firmly. “Okay. Yes. Boyd can do it. Okay. Bye.”

Reluctantly, Stiles lifted his eyes. Derek was looking at him silently.

“T-thank you? For not telling them?” Stiles struggled to say. He felt a mixture of emotions. Vulnerability. Fear. Wistfullness. A lot of misplaced anger. Anxiety.

Derek swung his head in negation. “Stiles,” he exhaled harshly. “If you—if you never want to go back. I’ll respect your decision.” It looked like it physically pained him to admit it. “If you never want to see me—again. I could—I could—” His face crumpled.

Suddenly Stiles was leaning forward, “No! I—I don’t want that!” His free hand was stretched toward Derek. He was a bit abashed by the admission but he couldn’t take it back. He couldn’t imagine watching Derek walk away now. Not again. “Please, Derek. We want you.”

The next moment found Derek on the couch wrapping Stiles and the babies in the gentlest yet most all-consuming hugs Stiles could ever say he was part of. The tenderness of his action brought hot tears to the corners of his eyes.

“I want you too,” Derek’s muffled voice rumbled from his shoulder. By the scruffy prickle it felt like he had wolfed out a little with emotion. “I want this. With you.”

Okay. Yup. There went the tears he was manfully trying to hold back. Stiles made a weird sound trying to hold back the sob/laugh he let out. “Squishy beans here, Sourwolf,” he sniffled. Gods. He couldn’t remember ever being this happy. It felt like it was pouring out of him like warm sunlight.

As Derek pulled back with a hesitant smile Stiles felt a twinge of pain in his abdomen. He winced. He cursed inwardly as Derek immediately drew back in concern, his face tightening in remorse.

“Don’t--!” Stiles’ said hurriedly, “I’ve over done it today. This is more activity than I’ve done in a few weeks. Sadly. My body is just letting me know.”

Derek was already taking matters into his own hands. Or rather, arms. For the second time that day, Stiles found himself (and his babies) being bridal-carried like it was no big.  

He could be excused if he missed the passing of part of the cabin in favor of fully experiencing the feeling of Derek’s firm arms tight around him.

Though the closer he got to an upper level Stiles’ thoughts began to race. Would they sleep in separate rooms? Would the babies have somewhere safe to sleep? Did Derek bring the co-sleeper? Should he feel so disappointed by the thought of Derek possibly choosing to sleep in a separate room? It would be the responsible thing to do. Not moving too fast into—but they were parents now—right? It wasn’t _wrong._

“Stop panicking.” Derek said calmly.

“Do you even know me--?” Stiles quipped in response.

He didn’t have anything to worry about. Derek walked them straight into the first room off the landing and it seemed like he’d already delivered all their bags here earlier. Stiles was justifiably wordless as Derek set him down on the o _hmygodsoft_ bed and transferred the girls over to the already set up sleeper.

“I’m never leaving,” Stiles said awestruck. He wanted to roll around and bask in the softness of the different furs draped over the bed (sorry PETA my boyfriend is a werewolf). The bed itself had to be King-sized and the mattress was cushion-y cloud heaven.

“I see luxury is the key to your heart,” Derek said dryly.

That sobered Stiles quickly, “No, actually. Luxury is just a perk.” He smoothed a hand over a light grey fur. “Loyalty would be closer.”

Derek was caught by his intense gaze.

“And I don’t mean what _she_ tried to fuck with.” Stiles lip curled at the mere thought of what Jennifer Blake or Julia Baccari or whatever the hell her name had been, had done to their tenuous relationship. To Derek especially. “I mean the kind of trust that you have always had my back. Even when you couldn’t stand me. That. That means everything.”

“Same,” Derek rumbled. His eyes were heated. “You always put yourself in harm’s way. For me.” Stiles could hear his unspoken, _no one else ever has_.

Deflect, deflect! Stiles squirmed as his body reacted to the Alpha’s gaze. He buried his face in the furs and starfished his arms and legs, mumbling, “Yeah well if you’d quit being a martyr like it was the 4th Century A.D.—”

Something landed on his back and Stiles squawked his surprise. His wind milling arms discovered the soft grey Henley and plaid pajama plants Derek had tossed on him. He carefully squirmed onto his side and saw that Derek was changing out of his clothes.

Face flaming at the eyeful of glorious muscle, Stiles scrambled to catch up. He felt super self-conscious about his body after having the babies. It wasn’t like he’d ever been confident beforehand but when a boy carried werewolf twins for almost nine months it didn’t exactly leave his scrawny body unchanged. He was lucky for his spark powers. The c-section scar and stretch marks were healing faster than nature normally encouraged, so Stiles was super grateful for that. But he couldn’t forget the alien way his body had felt, still felt in fact. Exhibit A: nursing.

Gah.

The bed moved as Derek climbed up to join him. Stiles lifted his eyes from his plaid-claid legs and his jaw dropped. “Puh—puh purple.” He said stupidly.

Derek was wearing a pair of smoky plum sleep pants and nothing else. Stiles almost checked to see if he was drooling but the smirk on Derek’s face illustrated Stiles’ appreciation was blatant. He groaned. “Sorry.”

Nothing like objectifying a recently assaulted Alpha werewolf.

“No, don’t apologize,” Derek’s smirk was small but genuine. “I’m relieved.”

Stiles pulled his back with a confused face, “Relieved? Why--?”

Derek reached forward for the hem of Stiles t-shirt. Stiles swallowed at the soft brush of Derek’s fingers against the uber sensitive skin of his belly.

“I thought maybe you didn’t like me that way anymore.”

If Stiles hadn’t been staring at Derek’s lips, he might not have heard his words they were spoken quietly. Even so, he still felt confusion. Derek had been worried? About how _he_ felt? He lifted his dark whiskey gaze.

“Didn’t like you--?” Stiles repeated. He blinked furiously against the heat swimming in his eyes. He dropped his head against Derek’s collarbone with a painful thunk. “If it hadn’t been for the babies, I don’t think I would have bothered to get away from . . . from _her._ ”

Derek growled low at the admission.

“Losing you felt like bisecting myself with a bone-saw,” Stiles tried to muffle his words in Derek’s chest. It was true but still embarrassing to admit. The Alpha’s fingers tightening around his shoulders indicated he heard. He let himself lean into the warmth, letting Derek’s earthy scent push away his dark memories. “So yeah, _idiotwolf_. I like you.”

They stayed in the hug for an indeterminate amount of time. Until Derek poked a sleepy Stiles in the arm with a thick finger. “You’re exhausted.”

Stiles blearily rubbed his face in Derek’s chest hair before he realized what he was doing. The pleased rumble from the wolf made him huff a wordless complaint but he allowed the other man to push his torso back in order to encourage him to change into the pajamas.

He allowed Derek to chase him under the mound of warm blankets and furs and actually moaned happily when they both settled in to sleep.

The hair at the back of his neck stirred at an amused puff of air and Stiles stuck his cold toes on Derek’s ankle in retaliation. He ignored the next puff of air, mostly because he was already asleep.


End file.
